Not Fond Enough
by IlliadFan
Summary: In Book IX of the Iliad, Diomeda, daughter of Forbas, appears fleetingly for the sole purpose of "laying beside godlike Achilles" during Briseis' absence. So I asked myself: why should the fact that she's there only as a sex object mean she can't have her own story?


"Diomeda?"

His voice was deep, full, vibrant as if it held music in it. Strong and powerful when he shouted orders to his men. Terrifying when he let out his deafening war cry in the battle fields. Sensuous and warm in bed.

She knew all those variants. She'd heard them all. She'd known all the feelings each of those tones elicited in the people who heard him. In her.

Might Zeus Olympian's lightning bolts send him crashing down to the deepest pits of Hades!

Why did that damned voice of his still make her heart beat like that? She should be over him by now. Way over.

Except that she wasn't. As much as it pained her, it was pretty bloody obvious that she was anything but over him. Well, she could always pretend, couldn't she?

Drawing herself up to her full height – pathetic as it was, because the top of her head hardly reached up to his shoulders – she turned to face him.

"Achilles."

A curt nod of the head to acknowledge him. Voice calm and controlled. Well done, she thought, pleased with herself.

He seemed oblivious to the effort it took her to keep her self-control. Why on Gaia's earth did he have to be so handsome? The golden hair that seemed to catch fire when the light touched it just the right way, the tall body, strong and nimble, sculpted like a statue. His features a textbook example of the perfect symmetry and balance that had become known as Greek Beauty.

Yes, he was Greek. And he was beautiful.

"I've been looking for you."

Of course he had. She'd been expecting it ever since the other woman had been taken away. She knew straight off that he'd come to her. Well, if truth be told, she'd actually expected him sooner. She never thought he'd break down to the point of spending several days laying in bed, unwilling or unable to even get up and speak to anyone.

Zeus Olympian's bolts strike him – and the other woman as well! Had that widow from Lyrnessus sapped his strength that much? Had she taken over his heart so thoroughly he forgot to hold on to his pride?

But he seemed to be trying to bounce back now. And he was turning to her to do it. Of course, she should refuse him. She should remain cold and aloof. Respectful, yes – she was his captive, after all – but quietly distant. He would get her point without needing her to spell it out for him and he would leave her be.

He knew damn well she had every right to be angry. Every reason to be hurt. He knew perfectly, goddamn well he had broken her heart.

O-O-O-O

Diomeda of Lesbos, daughter of Forbas. Born free, into a respected family. Chosen by her own people, by her own kin, to be among the captives taken by the conquering Greeks as part of the ransom negotiated by the conquered Lesbians.

It was standard procedure. Invading armies would usually pillage and burn, but when they took a city with some kind of key strategic or economic value, they would prefer not to destroy its social fabric, accepting instead the payment of a ransom consisting of a fortune in all kinds of goods and chattels - including highborn slaves.

Diomeda was fourteen when Lesbos fell to Achilles and his Myrmidons. The war had already been raging for two years, but was only just reaching the Trojan plains. Since their first gathering at Aulis, the Greeks had been methodically attacking and destroying the network of allies that supported Troy, before deploying their attack against the city itself. Everyone knew that Lesbos would be on the Greek hit list and the people of the island prepared to face the inevitable incoming raid.

But apparently no amount of preparation could have anticipated the sheer power and skill of the enemy warriors that arrived in fifty ships sailing under the colours of Phtia and were led by the eighteen year old who was already well on his way to becoming the most famous – and feared – of the Greek generals.

Hence Lesbos had fallen, but because of the importance of its harbour in the Aegean trade, the conquerors had refrained from carrying out a full pillage and accepted a negotiated capitulation. And as part of that negotiation, a number of young men and women of noble families were handed over to the victors as captives. Diomeda among them.

In spite of the fact that at fourteen years of age she was already considered nubile and could be proud of the monthly bleedings that had started just over a year before, she was small and slight, an urchin with narrow hips, a thin torso as straight as an arrow where there should be the curve of a waist, and a chest where she kept hopefully trying – and failing – to find something worthy of being called breasts. That had been a major cause of misery for her until then, but now, her mother told her, her lack of feminine attributes might well prove to be her salvation. Maybe that was why they had chosen to give her away, instead of one of her older and better looking sisters.

Be that as it might, she found the way some of those warriors eyed her deeply disturbing, as if her immature looking body didn't bother them one bit. Quite the opposite. It was downright terrifying.

Luckily, the Greek Assembly decided that her youth suited her to be given to the youngest of their own leaders – Achilles. And he, at least, didn't look at her in that creepy way those others did.

Actually, he barely looked at her at all. When they arrived in his hut, he'd asked her what her name was, ruffled her hair much as an older brother would and said that when she'd finished growing up into a fine young woman, he'd get her a fine young man to take care of her. Then he turned her over into the care of the older women who served in his household and proceeded to completely forget about her for the next couple of years. Albeit the mere four years difference in age between them, she was no more than a child in his eyes.

Life in the hut had proved easier than she feared. There was work to do, but not so much as to be considered exhausting, and the captives were well-fed and not abused. Fetching water, doing the laundry, weaving, keeping the house clean and tidy… it wasn't all that different from what was expected of any woman in any other household. Even noble women had to weave, sometimes even noble women accompanied their servants to the river where the laundry was done. And slavery… well, slavery was a fact of life, a given you could find any place, anywhere, something without which society couldn't function at all. There had been slaves in her island, in her city, in her father's house. As a matter of fact, slave trade was one of the main sources of income of Lesbos' economy. The island's harbour held one of the biggest slave markets in the Aegean.

No, no person born and bred in Lesbos could rail against slavery. No-one who had owned slaves could claim to object to it.

Besides, Diomeda's position wasn't exactly the same as a common slave's. She knew she would eventually become a concubine. A formal concubine, not a casual bedmate to be picked for one night and discarded afterward. Becoming a concubine wouldn't release her from captivity, but if she had the good fortune of producing a son for her lord, he would not be allowed to sell her or turn her away to anyone else, the boy would be entitled to an equal part of his father's inheritance as any of his brothers born in wedlock and, after the death of her man, she would be free. A formal concubine wasn't all that different from a secondary wife; there was a difference in social status, of course, and more importantly, a difference in assets – wives came with dowries they could dispose of in their will and testament, which worked as a sort of security device come their old age, concubines had nothing to their name. But for most practical purposes, it wasn't too different. Wives had to produce sons as well; if they didn't, the husband had every right to divorce them.

All in all, it could be worse. She could live well enough with the cards fate had dealt her. The only problem was who she would be concubine to. She wouldn't be allowed to choose, but neither would she have had a chance to choose her husband if she had stayed at her parents' home. The parents would do the choosing for her.

She knew Achilles meant to give her to his charioteer, Automedon. The charioteer was even younger than the young Phtian prince, good-looking enough and rather kind. Overall, a nice guy. He had no concubine and was highly likely to treat her well. The thing was… he was not Achilles. And in the course of those two years, while she was blooming into a young woman with enough curves to fill her gowns quite nicely and a pretty enough face to earn her the nickname fair-cheeked Diomeda, she had found herself head over heels in love with the golden warrior of the Greeks.

He was handsome and powerful, with an imposing presence that eclipsed everyone else whenever he entered a room. His well-honed body seemed to shimmer with coiled energy and displayed the menacing grace of a big cat in every movement. Dangerous as he unquestionably was, he had always proved to be fiercely loyal and devoted to his own. In stark contrast with that more obvious and warlike side of him, there was the artist and poet that revealed himself every time he picked up his lyre and sang. When that wonderful voice of his resonated through the women's quarters, everybody stopped what they were doing and just listened. Diomeda could have cried with joy every time she heard him sing.

Ares and Apollo rolled into one living, breathing mortal creature. How was she supposed not to fall for him?

But Achilles never looked at her, didn't seem to even see her at all. It was as if she were part of the background, a moving piece of tapestry. He too didn't have a formal concubine back then; he had a house full of captives who were interested in him, in part because of his considerable animal attraction, in part because he was the key to domestic power and safety in his household. Why settle for one woman when he could have as many as he wished? At least, that was what Diomeda assumed must be his reasoning.

However, looking more closely she realized he wasn't quite as shallow as it seemed. He could love. In fact, she found out that he had already loved. He just didn't seem to be in a hurry to go down that road again.

Well, he was by no means the only man with that sort of attitude. But if he had loved before, he was capable of loving once more. Why shouldn't she be the one to inspire him to do so? She would try. She was not going to let him give her away without a fight. She wanted Achilles, not Automedon.

She would get him to look at her. She would make him see her.

And so she took it upon herself to personally take care of all the chores that needed to be done in his quarters. At the very least, she would be there, supervising. She spent as much time around him as she possibly could, always making sure she was looking her very best. Gowns gracefully draped around her now well-shaped body. Hair braided, but then elegantly wrapped in a crown around her head. Nothing that might make her look childish or less feminine. She even managed to find some perfume that she used wisely and sparsely. Just enough to give her some allure.

Her efforts paid off. Finally, he looked at her and really, truly saw her. His eyes widened slightly, his lips curved up in a smile. "Diomeda? Look at you! You've grown into a gorgeous young woman. How didn't I notice that before?"

She willed herself desperately not to blush, but it was a loosing battle. Her cheeks were already burning a furious red. Still, she tried to hold herself as gracefully as possible, looking up and smiling shyly. "Thank you."

However, his next words were not at all the ones she hoped for. "I must take care of your future", he began. Her heart sank. He couldn't still be meaning to give her to Automedon! What could she do to avoid it? She had to make him want her for himself and she had to do it right away. But how?

If she had understood him correctly in those two years she had spent watching him, he wasn't one to appreciate tricks and stratagems. He seemed to value frankness above anything else.

She stepped up to him.

"Don't!" Her voice had come out gruffer than she intended. Almost aggressive. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was not a proper way for a captive to address her master. She took a deep breath. She knew she should kneel in supplication, one hand on his knees, the other on his chin to make him acknowledge her. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She was too painfully aware of the fact that she was already begging anyway, she didn't need to make a spectacle of herself on top of it. So she just added softly, almost in a whisper: "Please, don't." And she reached out, gingerly placed a hand on his arm.

It was the first time she had ever touched him and couldn't possibly have anticipated the jolt that made her shudder from the tips of her fingers all the way down to her toes. Aphrodite help her, she must be loosing her mind!

Of course, her unbidden reaction didn't go unnoticed. He locked eyes with her, suddenly very serious.

"Why not?" His voice was gentle, earnest. "It would probably be better for you. I'd make sure to find you a good man to treat you like a husband would."

Words were paramount. Phrasing was critical. Warriors didn't discuss their feelings, at least not with their captives. But they could hint at them. His choice of words and the way he phrased them conveyed quite a great deal of information. He wanted her to have the relative security the position of formal concubine would grant her, but he wouldn't be providing that position himself.

She too picked her words carefully, phrased them to get the right meaning across:

"Because he would not be the one I want."

Earth and heaven, it was hard to say something like that without blushing! She wasn't sure she'd succeeded.

A pause. He was choosing his words again.

"I'm fond of you, I'd really like to see you well off."

Meaning: _I'm not in love with you. I won't be able to give you what you're looking for._

He had never been one to lie. It was just a natural part of that strong character she admired in him, even if right now she wished he was just a tiny bit less honest. Well, it was a chance she would have to take. Who was to say he couldn't change his mind later on, when he began to really know her? It was not like he already knew all about her, or like he had paid a lot of attention to her so far. Fondness could still become love, he might still find she was what he really wanted.

She took a deep breath for courage. "Fond is good."

She realized she had inched closer to him, so close that his face seemed to fill her whole world. Would hers also be filling his? Was there at least desire in his eyes? She was too inexperienced, she couldn't tell for sure.

He pulled his head slightly back.

"What if you come to find it isn't enough?"

Damn his carefully chosen words! Damn him – and her as well for wanting him so badly. There was nothing left to do but throw all caution and the last shreds of dignity she still possessed to the winds.

"Shouldn't I be allowed to decide whether to take my chances on it?"

She was reaching up, her arms sliding around his neck, her face even closer to his. And finally, yes, she'd awoken his lust. She'd won the battle. Aphrodite grant her that she would not loose the war.

That night they slept together for the first time.

O-O-O-O

It had lasted for a little over a year. On and off. She was never his formal concubine, but she was the closest he had to one. He was not faithful to her, but then again he was not under any obligation to be and she had never expected it from him anyway. She supposed she could count herself lucky that he wasn't blatant about it, that he was actually rather discreet. He did hold her very dearly, he trusted her, he talked to her with a candour and openness he rarely showed to anybody else. He was nice to her, tender, attentive. They would take long walks on the beach, sit looking out at the sea together. He'd tell her about his homeland of Phtia, he'd share with her his nostalgia, his weariness of the war, his dreams of beating the odds and getting both glory and a long and happy life. If nothing else, she was sure she'd earned a place in his heart as a very close friend.

It wasn't bad. No, it wasn't bad at all.

It was not enough. Nowhere near enough, not by a long shot. Still, it was better than nothing. Until the other woman arrived. The widow from Lyrnessus.

It wasn't one of those sudden passions that seem to be the result of a poisoned arrow shot blindly by the god of love to drive poor mortals crazy. It grew slowly, progressively, almost without anyone noticing, including the two of them. Only Diomeda did.

How could she not notice that the only man she had ever wanted was slipping between her fingers?

At first, she ascribed it to the hunter in him not being able to resist the thrill of chasing the first elusive prey he'd come across in a very long time, because the other woman had begun by rejecting him rather bluntly. But it soon became apparent that it was a lot more than that. That what was growing between him and the woman from Lyrnessus was exactly what Diomeda had hoped to get for herself.

She watched helplessly while they grew ever closer, while their desire for each other burned ever higher, while the understanding and complicity between them became so deep they didn't even need words. She watched helplessly while the other woman, slowly but surely, became his formal and only concubine.

The cruellest, most exquisite torture devised for sinners in the depths of Tartarus couldn't have been more painful.

He tried to do right by her. Do right by her! How ludicrous. Rid himself of the continuous accusation that her presence was, more likely. He tried to arrange for another home for her, he even offered to endower her and marry her off to a merchant who seemed very keen on her. She'd refused all his suggestions. Even the one that would grant her freedom and a more respectable social status.

Why? She wasn't sure. Partly it was a matter of pride, of course. She wouldn't accept to be passed from hand to hand as if she were some kind of trinket. Also, she was pretty sure she could see sorrow for her in his eyes and she would be damn if she was going to take his pity. Partly it was because she knew her presence did make him feel guilty and she actually found it soothing to see that guilt. And partly… partly there was the fact that the blistering idiot that she was still had some hope to get him back.

Zeus strike her dead for her stupidity!

She would catch herself fantasizing that the other woman messed things up badly and he came back to her, sorry and repentant and finally realizing what a treasure she had been. In the really bad days, she would fantasize that the other woman actually betrayed him and he was confronted with the pain and humiliation of walking in on her in the act. Ah, that would be a sweet revenge indeed! She could almost taste it. And in the really, really bad days, her fantasies ended with her, Diomeda, laughing right at his face.

Of course she knew she would never be able to actually laugh at his pain. She couldn't even truly wish it upon him. But it felt good to imagine it. It relieved some of the anger.

As the years passed by, the searing pain of the first endless months slowly became a sort of dull ache. She could stand to see them together without feeling that she was being torn to pieces. She ceased to hate the other woman – she couldn't really blame her for what had happened. He was the one at fault, not the Lyrnessian widow. Yes, he had warned her beforehand that his feelings for her were not what she hoped them to be, but that did not excuse the callous selfishness of his actions in the end.

Still, in time she even ceased to fantasize about him falling on his face because of his poor choice of concubine. She ceased to fantasize altogether and found that she was again able to talk to him without bitterness. She learned to draw on her pride to always show him a façade of perfect impassibility. She made damn sure she would never again see pity in his eyes.

It worked. He believed she had moved on and he seemed to respect her for it. Apparently, he thought that the complex relationship between them had ripened into a healthy link of affection.

For a moment, even she came to believe it. She thought she was healed. She even considered asking him to arrange something for her again. But she never got around to it. Whatever the reasons, however stupid and sick it might be, she didn't want to leave.

O-O-O-O

Then it happened. It turned out to be worse than the most venomous of her fantasies: the other woman was taken from him under duress and given to another man. He was forced to just stand there and watch her go.

It was the most blatant injustice Diomeda had ever seen. He'd given his heart and soul to that war. He'd given his blood and the blood of his men. And that was the reward he got? After the heralds left with the widow from Lyrnessus struggling and shaking in despair between them, Diomeda couldn't help herself and ran out to look for him and tell him how very wrong she thought it all was, how everyone found the high king's attitude unjust and shameful, and how right he was to turn his back on a sovereign who'd behaved as a tyrant.

She'd seen him walking away from his men at a quick pace. Understandably, he wished to be alone. Still, she'd followed him along the beach. She would be there in case he needed her, she'd make herself scarce if he didn't.

And then, when he thought he was alone, she'd seen Achilles crumble in a heap on the ground and cry.

Jealousy took hold of her again. Jealousy, bitterness and an immense sorrow. Why so much cruelty, so much unhappiness? So many tears?

Suddenly, an irrational fear gripped her. The Fates have mercy on her, she just hoped it hadn't been her moments of ill-wishing in anger and hatred that brought all that pain upon them!

There was no pleasure whatsoever in seeing him suffer. There had been no pleasure whatsoever in seeing the other woman suffer when they were taking her away. There was no soothing sweet revenge in it at all.

Just the added pain of witnessing first hand how he cried for the other as he could never have cried for her.

She'd turned tail and run back to the women's quarters, unable to face him. She knew it was absurd: if the immortals had listened to her, things would be completely different. He would have fallen in love with her and the Lyrnessian would never have mattered. But she couldn't shake the haunting feeling that the rest of her fantasies would come true and he would be looking to her for comfort. And that she would give it to him. And that she would then loose him again.

He might be breaking down and crying like a child on that empty stretch of beach, but he was a warrior to the core and he would soon be fighting to get his woman back. He'd already started a cold war with the high king over it and no-one in their right mind could doubt that he'd win it in the end, as he had always won all battles he'd ever engaged in. No matter how many casualties he might cause.

He'd get his concubine back and, when he did, he would leave Diomeda again.

She had accepted all that as inevitable fact right there and then.

And now there he was. Standing before her, dishevelled and haggard after four or five days locked in his hut drinking himself into a stupor. Dishevelled, haggard and as handsome as he'd ever been in her eyes. Looking for comfort, asking for affection, starving for love to try and mend his wounded pride and his broken heart.

And she couldn't even find it in herself to hold it against him. To tell him what a hell of a nerve he had, coming to her after having crushed all her hopes and dreams the way he did.

Athena forgive her, she would never learn! She was glad he'd come. She was as unable to keep from caving to her love for him as he was unable to keep from caving to his need to be loved.

He was holding out his hand to her, suggesting "Shall we go for a walk?". She placed her own hand lightly on his and the now familiar jolt made her shudder once again from head to toe. He had the sense to cover up a smile and just squeezed her fingers softly. She squeezed back. They set off along the shore.

He was hers again, if only for a little while. It was better than nothing.

"I really am fond of you", he said.

She gave him a crooked smile:

"Yes, I know. You're just not fond enough."

It would never be enough.

It was neither Achilles nor her. It was Eros whom Zeus Olympian's bolts should strike into oblivion until the end of time.


End file.
